


Important Things

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Should Never Have Existed [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Elves, Emotions, Gap Filler, Gen, Hero Worship, Hinterlands (Dragon Age), Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Side Quests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 22:22:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13961295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: The Herald of Andraste, who is not quite what he seems, arrives in the Hinterlands.





	Important Things

He has a lot of important things to do, that middle-aged mage that some people call the Herald of Andraste.  
  
He always grows tense when he hears the word 'Herald': that awestruck whisper, blown into his face like an autumn leaf. And then he starts, as if a literal leaf has slapped him with its slightly soggy, rain-dampened edges. But few people can help holding the word back, not with the rumours that have been going around.  
  
About how, just as he staggered out of the Fade, tugged at impatiently by another mage, a sharp-faced, green-eyed girl with a fresh burn scar, there was also another female figure right behind him, a blurred silhouette flickering through the tear in the protective Veil between worlds. And about how regal that figure seemed, head carried high and adorned with what some described as an enormous, blazing white tiara. And about how that scarred girl, who has an unmage-like fondness for keeping her body honed and her arms capable of lifting up a sword or drawing back the bowstring, sometimes talks casually to her fellow Inquisition recruits as they spar with her, and says things like,  
  
'Sure, there was a woman... Whoah, that was a good one! Can you repeat it so I can try to parry! Aha, gotcha! So, what was I saying? Right, the woman! Looked a bit creepy, if you ask me. Faceless like a ghost; glowed all green. She did help us get away from those... things chasing us. Ooof, yesss! Broke through your block! What'd you say? Do I think he is chosen? Well, he has the Mark, right? And besides... What were her options? Him - and me! And you see... Growing up at the orphanage, the Chantry sisters would always tell me that Andraste wants nothing to do with the likes of me... Ouch, that hurt! Serves me right for getting distracted!.. So yeah, if that really was Andraste, she'd choose him over me any day! And thank goodness for that!'  
  
And for some who are present at these sparring sessions, or hear them described amid enthusiastic mug-waving at the tavern, or have a second (or was it third?) cousin whose friend's sister serves that tavern's patrons, this is proof enough.  
  
Truly, the mage carries the blessing of the Maker's holy bride! Truly, the Mark upon his hand, with its power to cull snarling demons and smooth over the wrinkles in the Veil, is none other than a divine miracle! Truly, he deserves the title of the Herald!  
  
Ah, if only he let them honour him like he deserves, and prostrate themselves before him in a reverent bow. If only he could at least a second without that squished-up, affronted look on his face as they threw themselves at his feet...  
  
But he keeps eeling out of being worshipped - and perhaps, that can be excused. He does, after all, have a lot of things to do. A lot of important things.  
  
There are three tasks set before him as he arrives in the Hinterlands, still somewhat woodenly stiff after his recent convalescence (they say he saved Seeker Pentaghast from a demon as tall as the White Spire itself!), wielding a mage's staff rather like a cane, and huddling in a long, flapping leather jacket and thick lambs' wool scarf, pulled up almost to his eyes to keep away the burning bites of the crisp wind that ripples through the thick silken grass on the rooftops of Fereldan huts.  
  
Three tasks - all very important! One is to find Mother Giselle, a servant of the Orlesian Chantry that, unlike so many of her clucking, derisively r-rolling sisters, does not look upon the Herald like a heretic, and may help the Inquisition with words of wisdom. She has last been seen in the hills, walking tirelessly from one makeshift field hospital or soup kitchen to another, with the dark smoke of the battlefield always swirling behind her. Stopping only to calm some thrashing, rasping wounded soldier, and see to it that all refugees in need receive healing supplies.  
  
The second task is to secure the approach to the Redcliffe farms, closing as many Rifts as possible, so that the Inquisition may find Horsemaster Dennett, whose services are sorely needed. If he is even still alive: there is a black pall hanging over his once verdant pastures, slashed through by bolts of unnatural blue and green light, and the handful of shaking, sniffling farmers - those who have not turned out too stubborn to flee from their homesteads - whisper, their jaws rattling, of a creek that has been frozen up by hovering creatures, like rotting human carcasses wrapped in trailing rags, with their heads made entirely of huge, flat, chomping teerh; and of packs of black wolves that stalk and kill any creature they come across, and yet never stop to eat their prey.  
  
And the third task is to destroy the campsites of the marauding rogue Templars and crazed apostates in the flame-engulfed valley below the lake cascade. Their feuding gangs are bent on pulverizing each other into fine ash - along with anyone else who, in their feverish one-track minds, looks even the tiniest bit like a Templar, or the tiniest bit like an apostate. Even if it is just a milk maid hauling a freshly filled bucket from a barn, while it flashes in the sunlight like a knight's shield. Or a modest elven farmer trying to till the measley patch of land he clawed his way to owning - and who cares that the long wooden object in his hands is a shovel and not a staff?  
  
This task is suggested to the Inquisition in a letter that arrived by raven from Redcliffe - where the Spymaster sent some mysterious inquiries not long before. The bird perches on the Herald's shoulder, making him jolt a little and grow a shade paler. The pallor only brightens, almost reaching the colour of fresh linen, when the raven drops the letter into his hands, with its head cocked to one side and one beady eye measuring him up with a nearly human-like slyness..  
And after the Herald actually unfolds the paper and skims through the message, his whitened skin nearly begins to shine in the sunlight, and his pupils shrink to a pinpoint when he reaches the signature.  
  
The oddest thing - for when he reads the letter out loud, it does not seem all that frightening,  
  
'Agents of the Inquisition:  
  
Thank you for your concern. It is appreciated, though sudden. We are more than well-situated in Redcliffe, and have not experienced any odd magical phenomena. The only "cult" that we know of are the new residents of Dwarfson Pass, but from what I hear, they are recluses dedicated to sitting idly and waiting for the world to end, so I doubt that we are in any danger from them. And if such danger does arrive, I am more than capable of protecting my people.  
  
Your own activities do intrigue me, however. If you showed that you truly are the guardians of peace that you seem to position yourselves as - say, by calming  both the rampaging Templar radicals and the stray souls that seem to have taken the message of mage rebellion the wrong way, and thus making the King's Road safe to travel again  - we might be interested in an alliance.  
  
  
Sincerely,  
Grand Enchanter Fiona'  
  
  
'An... An alliance with... I am not...' the Herald mutters after he is finished. 'Still - someone has to do something about that mage-templar squabbling of yours. It has gone on long enough'.  
  
Rather odd wording, since the Herald is supposed to be a Circle mage himself. At least, that's how the scarred girl, Nadia Trevelyan, usually introduces him when she is nearby.  
  
Seeker Pentaghast, the Herald's constant companion and advisor, always seems to falter if asked what his name is. She barely manages to squeeze out the first syllable, 'Geh' or 'Geeh' or some such strangled sound, when Nadia buts in brightly.  
  
'Gideon! His name is Gideon! He is, uh, my uncle - my long-lost uncle! I bumped into him at the Ostwick Circle! Fancy that!'  
  
The Herald tends to react to her babbling with a disgruntled glare, as though there is some dark, shameful secret lurking in his and his niece's shared past. But whatever that secret might be, at least now they both are on the same side, and both do their utmost to help people.  
  
Young Nadia also has a task of her own: she has volunteered to scout the Hinterlands for wild mountain rams, and hunt for some mutton for the overpopulated, underfed refugee camps under the Inquisition's banner.  
  
'This is gonna be fun!' she grins, snatching up a bow from the weapon rack near the Hinterland agents' tents and flexing the muscles of her arms and torso. 'Working on my marksmanship and being useful! Splendid!'  
  
With that, she saunters off (drawing a subtle amused chuckle from Seeker Pentaghast), and the Herald is left to do those more important things.  
  
Lots of important things. Things that he does not intend to get distracted from. But... But then, he overhears Corporal Vale complain loudly, as he paces in front of the tiny, coughing pyramid of a camphire, his hands behind his back,  
  
'These poor sods are gonna freeze to death soon, with no proper blankets! If we were in a city, I could just snatch some from a clothes line and be off! But out here, what's there to do? Go on looting apostates' caches? But someone just keeps stealing the blankets back!'  
  
When Vale makes a pause in his little rant to catch a breath, he glances up to find the Herald looming over him. Glowering. And appearing to gain a fraction of an inch in height with every second, his whole demeanour uncannily imperious for a modest mage who has been overseen by Templars all his life.  
  
'What was that about stealing blankets?' he demands. 'Why are you getting reduced to a common thug in order to provide for your people? And for that matter, why does Trev... my, uh, niece have to go prancing through the hills all on her own to supply your kitchens? What sort of logistics do you have out here?! I will be sitting Ambassador Montiliyet down for a long talk about this once we get back! And in the meanwhile, I shall see to it that this... mess gets fixed! Personally!'  
  
And so, his to-do list expands, with things that may not be as important - not for Andraste's chosen, certainly. When there are Rifts to seal and alliances to secure, who cares about blankets? And who cares about some feeble old knife-ear, who shadows the Herald  tentatively, struggling to keep pace with his broad strides as he darts back and forth through the Crossroads settlement, knocking on people's doors and collecting complaints, his expression determined, even inspired in a way.  
  
The Herald is so swift on his feet, moving with renewed energy and scarcely using his staff to support himself any longer, that the elf barely manages to wobble up to him, twig-like arms stretched forward pleadingly, and call out, in a tremulous, cracking voice,  
  
'Please, Serah... Could you... Find someone... That might... take care of my wife? She gets sick when the weather's foul; can't breathe, like cobwebs in her lungs... My son, Hindel, makes a potion for her; he is the only one who knows how, but... He has joined that cult in the hills... Up there, beyond Dwarfson Pass...'  
  
That is the least important thing that the Herald could bother himself with - but while the knife-ear is still slobbering, something flicks across his face. Something that does not quite befit the noble bearer of Andraste's cleansing light. A throbbing tic below his eye, and a sudden ugly spasm that twists his lips into some sort of snarling sideways figure eight.  
  
'All... Allow me to take a look at your wife' he says, swallowing. 'I know healing magic. And then... Then our expedition shall make a detour to Dwarfson Pass and find that irresponsible son of yours'.  
  
The Herald of Andraste has a lot of important things to do. But the Hinterlands, groan as they do under the weight of the demon invasion and the ceaseless clashes between mages and Templars, are rife with... detours. And the Herald follows each and every one of them.  
  
He whips out a journal to meticulously describe every flaw in the supply chain, every burned-down logging site, every broken bridge; he listens to each and every lost and terrified peasant, still cringing and backing off when they try to kneel, but paying attention to what they have to say.  
  
For in a different life, long ago and far away - a life very few are allowed to know about, for learning who truly hides under the name of 'Uncle Gideon' would have started a mass panic among the good Maker-fearing folk of southern Thedas - there was a Tevinter magister who also had important things to do.  
  
Lots of important things.  
  
Things that, nonetheless, could be set aside for the sake of a detour. A doomed yet determined quest to draw his colleagues' attention the sagging, cracked road pavement or the leaky roof of the Minrathous Circle. Or to set up a school for the Soporati: second-, third-class citizens strenuously balancing on the line between freedom and slavery, with no access to affordable homes or healers or education.  
  
Up until that day when someone else's lungs - and veins and eye sockets and skin - grew clotted with thick black cobwebs. And someone else, after countless stubborn tries to clear those cobwebs away, ran for the hills to join a cult.  
  
That other life has faded into the mists of time now. The magister has failed to do the one thing the cult tasked him with, and is now carrying the title of the very person he was supposed to destroy. The Herald of Andraste. A time-travelling interloper at the Conclave, branded by the magic that was meant to unwind the world, and yet has found a use to keep it propped up. As if the world were a broken bridge.  
  
And while he is at it, where is the harm in fixing smaller things as well? He did rather enjoy doing that... Once.  
  
It will be a while before he leaves the Hinterlands.

**Author's Note:**

> At this point, Alexius is not yet aware of Nadia's attitude toward the whole being chosen by Andraste thing, as he has spent most of the time in his cell, recovering from being sliced up by the pride demon at the climax of the opening battle. But they are definitely going to have a conversation about it later, especially as they gradually become friends.


End file.
